


Brüder

by orphan_account



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Extended Illness, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I worshiped him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brüder

**Author's Note:**

> _Brüder_ : Brothers

As the tire swing groans under his weight John has the passing thought that maybe they're too big for the old thing. Right now he doesn't really care, not with the clouds spinning in the sky and dots of shade sprinkling across his face as he twirls under the branches.

Edmund says it's not playing, they're too old to _play_ , but what else do you call twisting round and round under the the old oak and chasing through the fields and generally terrorizing anything that moves. It's the last week before school starts again and they’ll play until they wear holes in their shoes, whatever Ed says to the contrary.

His brother’s sitting above him on one of the sturdier branches, notebook in one hand, pencil in the other with comically intense concentration furrowing his brow. John swings himself higher, throws an acorn a him, and Ed swats it away, scowls. John smirks, rolls onto his stomach and spins through the cooling air.

“I don’t know why you're sweet on her, she's bad at games and won't even hold your hand.”

“You wouldn’t understand. You're too little.”

John is only three years younger and he bristles, stops his spinning, skids his shoes into the dirt and sticks his tongue out. Ed grins down at him, and John is happy again. 

“Besides, you know, she's-” He shapes his mouth and goes for a wolf whistle, the kind their father gives their mother when he thinks they can't hear. He starts, a shrill blast, and it cuts off. Nothing comes out, just a hoarse blow of air. He tries again. Nothing. His eyes cross and he frowns. John snorts.

“You mean she's a train?”

Ed jumps off his branch and tackles him. They wrestle in the grass and they are young and free and uncaring. 

They are eight and eleven, and it is the last time Edmund whistles. 

\---

He falls from the rope climb a little after the beginning of his freshman year.

John’s there first, as always, their schools are connected and word travels fast. He darts into the nurse’s office and into the little cordoned off area before she can notice he’s there. Ed’s lying on a cot, ankle bound and raised and a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His cheeks are flushed red and he rolls his eyes when he sees him.

“I just fell and twisted my ankle, Jesus Christ, it’s not that big of deal, I can probably walk home, Mother doesn’t have to-” John sits down in the chair opposite, looks at him, raises his eyebrows and doesn’t say a word. He’s young but he’s not stupid. Ed stares back, but defiance never did look good on him. Eventually he turns his head down, to the side, like he’s trying to hide in the pillow.

“My arms hurts too. Just a little. And my stomach. I was just tired.” It’s a mumble, and John glances at the nurse who’s fortunately too busy on the phone to give them much mind. He leans forward, wants to ask about it all, what really happened, but Ed’s already clammed up, staring dully at the body diagram on the wall. 

“It’s fine, I’m fine, I just have to practice more. Gotta beat the top time.” He turns and gives him a wan smile and John forces himself to reciprocate.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he stays, and they sit in silence. Their mother arrives twenty minutes later, and Ed wipes the sweat off with the cuff of his sleeve and pretends he’s not hurting.

\---

John’s sits with him again, this time in the clinic waiting room a few days after. Mother is talking with the doctor, alone, just to discuss a few things in private, and he's never been more worried in his life.

It was just a pulled muscle, the pain in his arm and abdominals. That's what the doctor said, happens all the time, especially around your age. Be easier on yourself in sports, and watch your growing pains, do your stretches my boy. And Mrs. Smith, could I have a word with you while you’re here.

Ed's bored, kicks his foot against the chair leg while he leafs through Redbook, keeps a running commentary on the “Marital Happiness Tips” until they're both snickering and the desk nurse is glaring from behind her glasses. It’s been a while, fourteen minutes by the tick of the clock. John watches it click to fifteen. His stomach churns.

There's an extensive section on “Easing Your Husband's Morning Strain” and then they're laughing so hard they can't breathe from trying to keep quiet. 

John’s sides ache and his brother his grinning with all his teeth and he’s still scared. He wants to hold Ed’s hand, knows he won't let him. He taps his fingers on his seat instead, picks at the fraying seams of his shirt hem, tries to keep his face smooth, focuses on the blank wall. 

The door opens and the doctor ushers Mother out. Her smile is too bright and too tight and a rush of cold plummets through him. Ed tosses the magazine aside and and John catches the tremor in his left hand as he stuffs it in his pocket and hops up.

“Am I sick enough for ice cream?”

\---

Edmund has been in bed for the better part of a month, year really, but they’ve agreed to only count the five or six weeks. When he sees the thing wheeled in he panics. He tries to leap from the bed but sags down against the pillows, glares and clenches his jaw. His mother stands nervously behind the chair, not exactly smiling, probably trying to. John peeks from behind the door, barely cracked open. He thinks she meant to close it. Through the sliver he watches Ed’s face, dark and scowling, his chest heaving under the comforter, fingers white knuckled.

“It’s probably only for a bit darling, until you get your strength back.” She rolls it forward and his face twists up in directionless rage.

“Edmund, dearest, the doctor said-”

And then he’s bellowing, get out get out _just leave me alone_ and she scurries back, shuts the door behind her. There’s the thud of a book hitting the wall. She knocks into John and he falls to the floor, looks up at her and her face is white and taught and wide eyed. Then she glares down at him.

“Room. Now.”

He picks himself up and half trips to his door, slams it shut and climbs onto his bed, buries his head under a pillow and tries very hard not to cry. Their rooms share a wall and he hears Ed throwing presumably everything he can reach, the crash of the vase of tulips some girl had dropped off, the rip and tear of book pages and magazines and the horrible choked sobs. There’s a thump and then silence. John waits. His face is wet. There is no sound and that is almost worse.

After a long while he opens his door a crack, slips out, treads softly to his brother’s room and wraps his hand around the doorknob, twists and peers through. Ed’s on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed, legs splayed out like a doll. He doesn’t look at John, just stares at the floor. John inches forward, steps gingerly over the crumpled paper and scattered bits.

“Eddy?” He looks up and his eyes are red and drooping. He moves one of his legs, but it’s a slow slide, trembling and jerky. 

“They don’t work John. They just don’t work. I don’t, I don’t think they’re going to anymore.” 

And then he’s crying again, burying his face in his hands, slumped and shaking against the wood. John steps slowly around the debris and slides down next to him, wraps his arms around his shoulders and brings Ed’s face into the crook of his neck, rests his chin on his head and runs his fingers through his hair.

They stay like that too long for him to keep track, and despite everything it feels like peace. 

Eventually John puts his arms around his chest and lifts enough for Ed to leverage himself in. He kneels, fits his feet into the steps and unlocks the wheels. He looks up, and Ed’s face is turned away. John stays quiet, resists the urge to rest his hand on his brother’s knee. 

Eventually Ed looks down at him and huffs out something like a laugh.

“Well, it’s senior year. I needed a slave anyway. Looks like you’ll be driving me around. Getting me food. Doing my homework. I’ll be living the life.” John rolls eyes, stands, flicks his cheek.

“I already do your homework.”

Later, Mother makes a pot roast and their father tells horrible jokes and they are almost happy.

\---

John is seventeen when the brick smashes through their front window and shatters glass through the sitting room in a spray of tinkling shards. Mother screams and his father springs up from his armchair, runs outside roaring at the figures running around the corner. John jerks up and over to Ed, still in his chair facing the radio, pushes him into the kitchen. He looks up as far as he can, lips slack and eyes hollowed out but still sharp and searching.

“What h’ppnd? She alright?” John tucks him in the corner, away from the windows, squeezes his shoulder.

“She’s fine, I just need to get her, stay put okay?”

As he strides back to the living room Ed snorts. As if there is any other option.

Father’s already back, talking on the phone very quietly, the kind of quiet the belays a certain rage John’s only seen once or twice in his life. Mother is trying to sweep the glass up, there are tiny cuts on her hands and blood on her dress and she’s crying quietly. He puts his hands around her waist, stands her up, pushes her gently out of the room.

“I’ll clean it. Ed’s in the kitchen, doesn’t know what happened, only heard you. Keep him calm?”

He pulls his sweater off and picks the glass into it as best he can, listens to her cooing to Ed. He always hates it, his brother, but allows it for her sake. Thinks it makes her feel better. John supposes he’s right. Ed’s still all there, all jokes and teasing, studies what he can. He’s still Ed, his Ed, and John’s throat clenches. His father hangs up and weighs the brick in his hand, tears off the paper wrapped around the thing and crumples it into his pocket.

“I’ve called it in, but I doubt they’ll do anything.” John stops and peeks up. He’s not usually the one he talks to about these things, that’s always Mother. But his father is looking at him and he feels horribly small. He swallows, stands, tries to look like he’s not frightened. 

“Who was it?”

His father laughs and it is an entirely unpleasant sound.

“Probably just shitheads looking for trouble.” He says it loudly, and his mother makes a muted disapproving sound. John looks at the window, then to the floor, the little specks of glass twinkling in the light. He’s still young, but he’s still not stupid.

“Is it because of Grandpa?”

He draws John in by the arm. There’s a strange look on his face, something twisting his mouth, he hasn’t seen it before and it spooks him. He resists the urge to pull back, plants his feet.

“It’s a bad time for people like us. Has been for a while, but with all this shit in Europe it’ll get worse. And yeah, your grandpa might’ve changed his name but we still look German enough.”

He pauses, glances at the kitchen, then leans in further, whispers into his ear.

“There’s a gun in the bedroom closet behind your mother’s hat boxes. It’s loaded. If anyone comes looking for Schmidts, or Boches, anything like that, you know what to do. You’re the one who can now.”

\---

In the end it’s pneumonia, and it’s quick. 

It was a mercy, the pastor said, a wounded, sickly soul released from a failing body and mind into God’s loving arms. John wants to punch him in the face. There was nothing failing about his brother. He clenches his hand at his side instead, digs his nails into his palm while the old man drones on and on. 

They sit on the front pews, the immediate family and a few of the closer relatives, and John stops listening, just stares at his brother’s face in the open casket. They did a good job tidying him up, his brown hair smoothed to the side and those sunken cheeks stuffed with cotton and blushed. He almost looks alive. Mother cries, and he holds her hand in his, lets her lean against him. John does not cry, he has no tears left, only numb and hollow resignation.

The graveside service is blessedly short. Father throws the first shovel of dirt, and then the whole thing’s over really, just the little cousins tossing flowers and watching as the men start to fill it in. There’s a luncheon at the church after, but he doesn’t want ham and potatoes and whatever godawful casseroles they’ve cooked up, especially doesn’t want the tiptoeing conversation and tight smiles. He slips out the kitchen door when his mother’s dishing the beans and pads down the steps, finds a place along the wall and pulls a cigarette from his suit pocket. He lights it, pulls the first sting into his lungs.

“I know a lot of people’ve already said this to you, but it’s a real shame.”

John has the dignity not to jump but still starts a little, tenses, flicks his eyes to the left. There’s a man next to him, short, with pinched face and a mustache that probably looked dashing fifteen years ago. He pulls out a cigarette. John doesn’t want to stay, but he can’t abide the inside, so they stand in silence, blowing smoke into the air.

“I lost a brother myself.”

John does not want to hear about this and something like anger bubbles through the numbness. He doesn’t want the pity. He can take the pain, and maybe the loss, eventually, but he can’t stand the pity. He stubs his cigarette into the brick, kicks off the wall to leave. The man goes on, unperturbed.

“In the war. Got his legs shot off, died in some French hospital in the middle of fuck nowhere. They didn’t bother to send a notice, it was his unit mates, what was left of them, who told us when it was all done and finished. We came over a couple years after the treaty. They still didn’t like us much after that.” He laughs, and it’s the same laugh as his father’s, bitter and cold. John turns and the man is eyeing him, appraising.

“I was a little younger than you, when we finally got the official letter, condescending piece of bull that it was. Got real mad. Did some stupid shit.” He leans in and John refuses to give way, sets his jaw, stares back at him.

“You ever get real mad about this? Ask your dad about Thursday nights. Keep asking until he brings you. You’re old enough now. You know what’s going on. Shit’s getting rough, even here. And it’ll get rougher. We’re gonna need more people on our side.”

He drops his cigarette butt on the ground, grinds it under his shoe and winks.

“Sieg Heil kid.” He smiles the cold smile and strolls around the corner church. 

John digs out another cigarette and lights it with a shaking hand.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an immensely stressful fic to write, and I've decided to just be done with the thing. I based the progression off of Facioscapulohumeral Muscular Dystrophy, which I believe is what is mentioned in the show, though they may have used an antiquated term. 
> 
> As always, my kidneys for criticism. And drop a message @henchfriend on tumblr if you want.
> 
> Also if anyone has suggestions for how to do scene breaks I'd be eternally grateful.


End file.
